ive to heat and cold. When the north or east
wind blows they do not come out; they like a warm evening.

A shrike flew down from a hedge on May 9, just in front of me, and
alighted on a dandelion, bending the flower to the ground and
clasping the stalk in his claws. There must have been an insect on
the flower: the bright yellow disk was dashed to the ground in an
instant by the ferocious bird, who came with such force as almost to
lose his balance. Though small, the butcher-bird's decision is
marked in every action, in his very outline. His eagle-like head
sweeps the grass, and in a second he is on his victim. Perhaps it
was a humble-bee. The humble-bees are now searching about for the
crevices in which they make their nests, and go down into every hole
or opening, exploring the depressions left by the hoofs of horses on
the sward when it was wet, and peering under stones and flints
beside the way. Wasps, too, are about with the same purpose, and
wild bees hover in the sunshine. The shrikes are numerous here, and
all have their special haunts, to which they annually return. The
bird that darted on the dandelion flew from the hedge by the
footpath, through the meadow where the stag is generally uncarted,
beside the Hogsmill brook. A pair frequent the bushes beside the
Long Ditton road, not far from the milestone; another pair come to
the railway arch at the foot of Cockrow Hill. In Claygate Lane
there are several places, and in June and July, when they are
feeding their young, the 'chuck-chucking' is incessant.

Beside the copse on the sward by the Long Ditton road is a favourite
resort of peacock butterflies. On sunny days now one may often be
seen there floating over the grass. White butterflies go
flutter-flutter, continually fanning; the peacock spreads his wide
wings and floats above the bennets. Yellow or sulphur butterflies
are almost rare--things common enough in other places. I seldom see
one here, and, unless it is fancy, fewer the last two seasons than
previously.

In the ploughed field by Southborough Park, towards the Long Ditton
road, partridges sometimes call now as the sun goes down. The corn
is yet so short and thin that the necks of partridges stand up above
it. One stole out the other evening from the hedge of a field beside
the Ewell road into the corn; his head was high over the green
blades. The meadow close by, the second past the turn, is a
favourite with partridges, though so close to the ro